This Crazy Rich Boy

Miguel and Karen are already at the table when they arrive. Claire almost fails to recognize Karen—she's wearing something fashionable and classy, and she glitters in the half-dark with all that jewelry—a far cry from the woman of only a few hours ago. How in hell does a thing like this happen?

Miguel stands up and gives Claire a hug, and whispers in her ear, "You look smashing, baby!"

She's taken aback by that, but she hides it. "Your date is smashing, too. Where's Karen?" she teases.

"You are unbelievable," Karen giggles as she stands and gives her an air-kiss. "It's still me, the little innocent wide-eyed girl underneath this fancy exterior of glamor and signature brands."

Claire bites her lip to stop herself from saying something scathing; Karen's fakeness is really getting on her nerves, but she tries to focus on her singular mission: survive the night.

"So Gabriel, it's nice meeting you again," Karen says. "Miguel talked my ears off about his beloved older brother."

"If it's all impressive things, then I ȧssure you it's all true," Gabriel says. "You clean up well, Karen. From what I hear, you passed out right in front of The French Place just hours ago."

"Yes, uhh," Karen glances at Miguel. "It's all thanks to your brother, Gabriel. He had me set up in his place, and ȧssigned a butler to attend to my needs. He even gave me all these jewelry. Isn't he quite a generous dashing debonair?"

"Yeah," Gabriel says. He grins, but he looks more like baring his fangs disapprovingly at his brother. "That's Miguel for you. Just you wait and he might even give you his penthouse suite downtown. Or even your own private jet."

Miguel laughs, yet the laugh is mirthless.

"So what happened between you and that guy? Robert what's-his-face?" Gabriel's voice has an edge to it.

"Russell," Karen corrects. She makes an animated shrug. "He left me."

"That's it?" Claire says. "Just like that?"

"Yeah. Just like that. Some men are such ȧssholes. But I already told Miguel everything. I might bore him to death if I begin spoiling this dinner with stories about that man."

Claire ignores the plea. "So you have no idea where Russell is right now?"

"Well, generally, he would be in his office. He's still running his security products business, I presume. But ever since he took away my phones and everything he had given me as a gift while we were together, I haven't tried contacting him."

"I see," Claire mutters. "But did he have the authority to boot you out of the apartment?"

"Oh, he didn't do that," Karen says. "I went a bit crazy when we broke up. I would hang out by the lobby of his office building, waiting for him. I had to be dragged out of security just early this morning. I hadn't eaten or slept in days. I didn't return to my apartment. When I literally stumbled into you and Miguel, I thought I was hallucinating. I was that desperate."

Claire stares at Karen for a long moment, wondering whether or not to believe Karen's tale of woe and dejection.

Claire and Gabriel exchange meaningful glances. For Claire, at least, Karen is an enigma—she could just dismiss her as an annoyance, but lately, nothing happens without a good reason. What is Karen bringing with her? Is it really that neutral? That her reappearance would have no bearing in Claire's life from here on? What can Karen possibly break?

For Gabriel, his major concern is Miguel's behavior. He believed Miguel to be playing some little game, but he's surprised that his brother had already splurged on this woman. Sure, Karen's very attractive, but she's attractive in a Michelle Alcantara sense—that is, Karen's beauty has an edge to it, as though she would stab you in the back the moment you turn away. And that's what has been eating Gabriel—Karen's presence in the context of his immediate family is making his internal alarm bells set off.

"This is turning into quite an interview," Gabriel laughs awkwardly. "Shall we order food now? Appetizers, at least?" He gestures to the waiter, who politely recites the night's appetizers menu.

"Those blue point oysters sound nice," Miguel says.

"Can I have just a plate of tuna tartare salad?" Karen says. "Still watching my figure, sorry."

"What about you, honey?" Gabriel says.

"I, uhh," stammers Claire. She's taken aback by Gabriel calling her 'honey'—it's titillating and surprising at the same time, yet the feeling tapers into a form of sadness—after all, it's all just an act, right? And she really doesn't know what to order—she's not used to eating in these fancy schmancy restaurants, in the first place.

Gabriel reads everything in her eyes. "Uhh, honey, the crab cakes here is to die for. Would you like to try that?"

"I…yes, sure, if you say so," Claire mutters, still really undecided.

"Or the goat cheese peppadew peppers? It's pepper stuffed with artisanal goat cheese. Have you tried goat cheese before?"

Claire cringes. "I haven't even tried goat, much less cheese made of goat."

"It's made of goat's milk, honey, not actual goat," Gabriel says, smiling.

"Oh, I love goats!" chimes in Karen. "They're cute!"

"Didn't you say Russell, your ex-boyfriend, looked like a goat with his goatee and his voice?" Miguel teases.

"Oh, I hate goats then!" Karen giggles.

Gabriel gives the waiter his instructions. The waiter makes a polite nod and disappears.

"Well, that's it for starters," Gabriel says.

"I missed this place," Miguel says. "Even when I was dining at restaurants in Italy, I still missed Maroni's. There's something about the smells and the ambiance and the flavor."

"And the memories," Gabriel adds. "We've been dining here since we were little kids, Mom and the fake Italian chef were good friends."

"What do you mean 'fake Italian chef'?" Claire asks.

Gabriel snickers. "Well, the chef is actually from Bulgaria, having learned the craft only from years of apprenticeship spent in Rome. So he's not authentic Italian."

"But the food is," Miguel adds. "Although there's the slightest hint of difference, which you can tell especially if you've been to the Italian countryside and tasted the local home-cooked dishes there."

"But you'll see," Gabriel adds. A beat, then he says, "I wonder why we haven't bought up this place, Miguel?"

"Have you forgotten? The chef—and Mom, for that matter—doesn't want to sell it. If he dies, so would Maroni's."

Gabriel falls silent.

Claire has been watching this exchange, noting how the brothers—two of the business world's most powerful men—talk about this little restaurant on the outskirts of the city as though this was the Square One of their lives, realizing that everyone starts small somewhere. That no matter where or how far you end up in life, you're always that kid who loved the food your mother fed you.

Claire stands up. "Please excuse me, boys. Will just visit the ladies'."

Claire half-expects Karen to follow suit, but to her mild surprise, Karen stays there. Maybe she wants to maximize every moment of this dinner with the brothers, now that she has her foot in the door.

In the restroom, Claire retouches her makeup. She stares at her reflection in the mirror, wondering if this pretty face could hold someone like Gabriel Tan's attention much more than the kind of pretty Karen is. "Don't be foolish," she mutters to the reflection. "This is just a job. Don't fall in love, please."

Claire stumbles into someone hanging by the ladies' room's door.

"Oh, my God, it's you," the man says, who looks somewhat familiar. Has she seen him somewhere? "I've been waiting for you for ages. What did you do inside that ladies' room? You took so freaking long."

Blood rushes to Claire's head; such impertinence suddenly helps her remember who this ȧsshole is. "You're the reporter," she says. "From the pool party. At Gabriel's mansion. The one the guards threw out. The one who begged at Gabriel's feet."

"And you're the CEO of ten million companies, who can speak five languages, and actually looks so much hotter in a red two-piece bikini," the man snickers. "It's Gary Smulder at your service, Miss Claire."

He extends a hand, which Claire doesn't shake.

"What do you want?"

Gary appears offended. He stares at his unshaken hand. "Well, I'm here to dig up dirt."

"Dig up what?"

"Dirt," Gary says. "Dirt on you and Gabriel and Miguel and that new hottie over there at your table. All for the sake of fair journalism."

Gary grins; his one gold tooth glimmers in the dark.